Hey Gillian,

I’ll take it since it’s been some time, and that I’ve not received any return correspondence, that you’re probably not going to write back. Its okay, I guess. I never asked for a pen-pal, just someone to experience this war through my eyes. Hell, you can even consider this a diary should I not return. It could be my famous last words or some sappy shit like that. Hopefully, that admission will take away some of the awkward pressure in your decision to put pen to paper.

It’s funny, immediately after I sent the last letter, I met up with a colleague at the NCO bar at my request. He’s a sweet kid, and like a lot of the boys back home; both you and I could drink him under the table. It was only a few shots before he was looking at me like I was Goddamn Aphrodite.

Man, remember those days at Matt the Millers? Between the two of us, we’d have almost every bloke drooling at our heels and begging to take us home. God, I really miss that.

Could you hear my over exaggerated sigh from this far away? I really do hope you’re doing okay and that I haven’t messed up things too badly for you. I guess you were right when you’ve accused me of jumping ship when things got ugly. Without any contacts from home, I really have no idea what became of, well, anything. Even if I’m not there to meet the consequences, believe me when I say that I think about it almost every day. I don’t know if you are pumping that fist in some small celebration of the thought of my mental demise, or actually worried about me out here, but as I’ve said in every other letter; I do miss you.

Regardless, back to my little soiree. My Platoon Sergeant gave a small and informal lecture on ‘experience’, after overhearing me spit out conspiracy theories during our first engagement. She felt it was her duty to make sure I wouldn’t be spouting such nonsense so freely without the proper education. I don’t get it, even after facing our own deaths, and surviving the best Terran training, we are still considered ‘green.’ Newbies. Freshmen. Bottom of the food chain. There are terms and phrases for lack of experience no matter where you end up, but the truth is, mostly everyone who has to work for something starts in the shit. I don’t know why, but her words, no matter how wise they were,  hit me harder than any stun-fire exercise that I had suffered in training. I’ve always been one to roll up my sleeves when it’s been needed, but I would have thought somewhere between fighting for the survival of the human race and your own hide, the bar would be set lower as to where you belong up here.

It’s a rather big jolt to the system that despite my intelligence, I still know absolutely nothing and I guess I need to keep my mouth shut.

Shannon
 
P.S. Collins is his name. Mum would be so proud to know I bedded someone atleast appearing to have Irish blood.